Hot & Bothered (12 page)

“Well, aren't you a dear,” said the woman with whom Victoria had been conversing.

“Yes, she is,” Victoria agreed, even though she recognized Esme's statement for the sly attempt it was to gain a concession on an already agreed-upon negotiation point. She bit back a smile.
Must come from her father's side of the family.
“But I'll be fine, sweetie. And you already know my feelings about little girls being subjected to funerals or wakes.” Not that this was the former nor even a proper latter, as that implied bonhomie, drinks and affectionate stories of the deceased. Not to mention how Father would turn in his grave to hear it described as such. But that was semantics. “Look around you, Es. Do you see any other children?”

“Noooo.”

“There's a reason for that, and if you recall we discussed it at length both last night and this morning. So you may say hello to Rebecca's mother before we fix you a plate at the buffet. Then you and Helen may have a picnic lunch on the grounds, just as I promised you.”

Esme studied her for a moment, then blew out a gusty sigh. “'Kay.”

Victoria smiled at the wealth of weary disgust she managed to pack into that single syllable, but took Esme's hand and turned her toward the woman with whom she'd been speaking before her daughter's arrival. “Say hello to Mrs. Bell, sweetheart. Bettie, this is my daughter, Esme.”

The little girl immediately brightened. “Hullo, Mrs. Bell.”

“Hello, dear. You're quite a self-possessed little thing, aren't you?”

Esme clearly didn't have a clue what that meant, but she nodded enthusiastically just the same. “Uh-huh. Mummy says I'm very bright.”

Tori saw a glimmer of genuine humor in Bettie Bell's eyes as she smiled down at Esme.

“I can see why.” The older woman turned to Victoria. “I can also see you're trying to juggle a lot of responsibilities at once, so I'll let you go. I am sorry about your father, dear. He wasn't much of a man, but he was your dad and I imagine you're finding it quite difficult adjusting to his loss.”

“Thank you.” Then excusing herself before Bettie could add something about her so-called engagement, she turned Esme toward Pam Chilworth, who stood with a group down by the fireplace.

As she passed a small knot of people near the buffet
tables she heard one of them murmur, “This is one of the last great estates left in the Broadmoor area. I wonder if the heirs will parcel it out now that the old bastard's kicked the bucket? Wouldn't that be ironic, considering how hard he fought to keep development here to a minimum?”

She glanced toward John, who was carrying on a low-voiced conversation with Jim McMurphy in the corner nearest the French doors. Despite her wrath, she made a mental note to pass on the overheard snippet of information. She recalled her father's fury over the development of the resort community some years back. Considering how unsuccessful his attempt to stop it had been, the conversation she'd heard probably meant nothing.

Yet she wouldn't dismiss it out of hand, for it was also possible it was worth further study.

She overheard several other less-than-flattering assessments of her father's character as Esme spoke to Rebecca's mother and again as Victoria escorted her daughter through the buffet. She was anxious to get the little girl out of here before she, too, overheard something that made her realize the lack of affection in which her grandfather was held. While it was true Ford had never been a very attentive grandparent, Victoria didn't see the point in inflicting the nasty reality of his personality upon her daughter. Neither did she care to have Esme overhear the news of her mother's faux engagement before she could find a way to explain it to her.

She quickly dished up two plates and turned them over, along with her child, to Helen's affectionate care. Then, with a sigh, she went back to her role as co-hostess.

It was shaping up to be a long afternoon.

“W
ELL, SO MUCH FOR YOUR BIG
‘Going to our respective corners, where we keep things nice and professional' speech.”

John looked up from the notes he'd been writing to see Victoria stride into his office. Although she softly clicked the door closed behind her, she somehow managed to give the impression that she'd slammed it with all her might. Coming to stand over his desk, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and glared down at him, her eyes flashing a truer green than usual, her cheeks hotly colored. He clicked his pen shut, rocked back on his chair, and gave her his undivided attention. The woman was clearly pissed.

Big news flash, Ace.
He spared the ruddy crescent-shaped grooves that indented his wrist a quick glance before looking back up at her. “We are going to keep things professional.”
Somehow.

“By pretending to be
engaged?
”

The incredulity in her voice that all but added “to
you?
” lashed at a secret little insecurity he hated to even acknowledge existed and he tossed the pen and notepad filled with his impressions of the various people he'd met this afternoon onto his desk. Sliding his feet off the desktop where he'd had them propped, he dropped them
to the floor and sat up. “I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might actually have a good reason for suggesting it.”

“Well, certainly. That was the
first
thing to pop into my head. And you know what I came up with? Because you saw another dog showing interest in a bone you used to find attractive.”

She had a point. He'd seen that clown Wentworth finger-walking her arm and some primal, territorial gene had kicked in, making him leap to mark his claim first and think second. “There's no ‘used to' about it. You know damn well I'm having a hard time keeping my hands to myself. But the truth is, babe, I don't do that possessive, branding-what's-mine-against-all-comers crap.” Or he hadn't until he'd met her, anyway. He'd never understood that sort of behavior, didn't like it, and he sure as hell didn't trust it.

What he
did
trust was his ability to snatch an excellent idea out of thin air and run with it. He had great instincts and he'd learned long ago to follow where they led.

It just so happened that this time they'd led to him announcing his engagement to Tori. If it had given him a great deal of satisfaction to wipe the supercilious smirk off Wentworth's pompous face in the process, well, that was a bonus, to be sure, but secondary to his primary objective. The important thing was the soundness of the plan. And this was a good one—addressing as it did a number of the problems that had been plaguing him about how he'd induce anyone in Victoria's world to give him the time of day, never mind information that might help clear her brother's name.

Instead of telling Tori any of that, however, he heard himself demanding, “Just who the hell is that joker to you anyway?”

She stiffened. “What makes you assume he's anything to me?”

“Please—‘I fear I've forgotten your last name'?” he mimicked in a falsetto voice, then let it drop back into its normal register. “I doubt you've ever forgotten anyone's name in your life. Particularly not someone who acted as familiar with you as that guy did. So, who is he?”

She looked him up and down. “What did you mean when you said your father was a mean drunk?”

Like a sniper's bullet, he never saw the question coming and it was a direct hit—it took everything he had not to jerk beneath its impact. He faced her without so much as blinking, but ice lined his gut at the thought of how differently she'd look at him if she ever learned of the violence that had marred his childhood. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Tit for tat, Miglionni. You seem to think you have a perfect right to my personal information, but you're certainly reluctant to share any of your own.”

“Because there's nothing of interest
to
share. Now, you wanna get back to business or not?”

He should have been pleased to see her face lose all animation and turn smoothly impersonal. It bothered him just how much he minded instead.

“By all means,” she agreed with the same distant courtesy he'd watched her employ all afternoon. “Let's do that. You can begin by explaining how on earth posing as my fiancé will possibly benefit my brother.”

Her cool formality belatedly brought him to his feet to indicate the chair across the desk from him. “Have a seat.”

She did so, her back princess straight, ankles primly crossed and hands folded with ladylike stillness in her lap. For a moment he simply stood there and silently dealt
with the discovery that he much preferred her denting his wrist with her nails or trying to grind his toes into paste to the way she managed to look through him now as though he were some presumptuous street tough trying to pass himself off as a man of quality. Then with a shrug, he took his own seat once again. But for an additional second he simply observed her.

She looked tired and frustrated and…sad. Guilt twisted inside him. For a short while today they'd actually conversed with some of the ease they'd once known, and he understood on a gut level that the memorial and reception had been emotional wringers for her. If her father hadn't literally been consigned to his grave this day, at a minimum they'd held what amounted to his funeral. And even if, from all accounts, the guy had been a sorry son of a bitch, he'd still been her father. John admitted—if only to himself—that his own bald announcement to Wentworth hadn't made things any easier for her.

So maybe he ought to give her a break and put this discussion off until tomorrow. The only time he'd seen her look the least bit happy today was when Esme had shown up for a brief period during the reception.

But he didn't want to remember the little girl hanging from Victoria's waist as she'd beamed up at her mama and he squared his shoulders, shoving the memory aside.
Hell, get real, pal.
Victoria would be the first to agree he was a conscienceless sinner. Just look at his failure to do anything about getting to know his own daughter.
So why do you wanna confuse things by developing a conscience at this late date? Stifle that crazy-ass urge to give her a breather.

But he kept picturing a little sweet-faced, dark-eyed girl, until, as if in answer to an unstated prayer, the memory of DeeDee giving her eulogy popped up to
replace the image. With silent thanks and renewed determination he leaned forward. “Listen, if you want to present the cops with another suspect, I'm going to need access to all the country-club types who had contact with your father.”

“So you've said before. And I believe I already agreed to introduce them to you.”

“Yes, you did. But I also recall mentioning that private detectives rarely get involved in murder cases, both because cops tend to frown upon their participation and because they have no real authority to compel people to talk to them. I can't make anyone tell me what they don't want revealed. And why do you imagine anyone
would
want to talk to me, Tori? To satisfy some burning desire for truth, justice and the American way?”

Seeing her open her mouth to retort, he rode right over whatever rebuttal she might have made. “As your fiancé, though, I'd have an entrée that few would bother to question. People are less on guard in social situations and I can take advantage of that to work conversations around to the things I want to know. I'd be free to talk to bartenders and caddies and the like without them having to worry that the members they depend on for tips are wondering what secrets they're telling me.”

“So you're saying that in order to do your job you'd
lie?
”

“In a heartbeat, darlin'. What'd you think, that a killer would just stand up and confess his crime because he likes my pretty face? Role-playing is part and parcel of being a detective.”

“You always struck me as more straightforward than that.”

“And so I am…if it'll get me the facts I need to close a case. But I've also been known to set up a sting, pretend
to be someone I'm not and flat-out lie through my pearly white teeth.”

She looked as if she were severely disappointed in him, but didn't comment as she crossed one long leg over the other. “What good does talking to the help do?”

He pulled his gaze away from the slice of thigh revealed by the slide of her skirt up her nylon-encased legs. “For the most part, like servants, they're treated as if they're invisible. And the unnoticed are the very people who tend to observe stuff themselves. To
hear
stuff. For example, DeeDee eulogized your father today as dear, dear Ford, but rumor has it she might be messing around with the tennis pro at the club. The kid who picks up balls and dispenses towels could probably tell me faster than anyone else if that's actually true or not.”

“How on earth did you hear that?” Then she shook her head. “Never mind—I don't even want to know. Besides even if it's true, haven't we already established she had no motive for Father's death?”

“That's simply the quickest example that came to mind.” Glancing at her legs again, he tugged his tie loose. Then, impatient with himself and feeling a little pissed at her as well for distracting him from the matter at hand, he drilled her with a hard gaze. “Do you see what I'm saying, though, or are you being deliberately obtuse?”

Jesus, Ace, get a grip.
He gathered himself, not needing to see her offended expression to know he was out of line. He'd been trained to be more diplomatic than this. “Look, murder isn't my area of expertise, so the whole engagement gig is a long shot at best. But I'm telling you straight out, I've got a much stronger chance of succeeding with that as a cover story than if I simply go in and start asking questions because you hired me to.”

She jiggled her foot in its sleek, spike-heeled shoe. “In other words, you want to throw me back in the middle of that phony social scene,” she said crankily. “The one I swore I'd never get involved in again.”

“Hey, it's your call.” But what was with her waspishness all of a sudden? It wasn't like Victoria at all. She was usually much too mannerly to show her temper. Although, come to think of it, that was generally with everyone except him. Still, he studied her with unwelcome concern. “Did you get anything to eat today?”

“What do you care?” She scowled at him. “And have you bothered to give one moment's thought to what Esme might think to find her mother suddenly engaged?”

Oh, shit.
The truth was, he hadn't. Dammit, he
wanted
to do right by that little girl. He'd like nothing better than to do right by her…if only he knew what the hell that might be. Was it trying to further his acquaintance with her, or was it keeping his distance?

And his face must have said it all, because the look Tori shot him was pure disgust. “You're a real prince, Miglionni. Even leaving Es out of the equation—and trust me that's highly unlikely—what makes you assume you can pull this off? That damn club is all about golf and tennis and status. And you—” she eyed him critically, her gazing lingering for a moment on his hair “—well, you're hardly the country-club type, are you.”

It wasn't a question and he shoved his chair back with a screech and rose to his feet. “What—you afraid I'll pick my teeth with my pocketknife in the exalted club dining room?” Anger and an edge of something else he didn't care to examine too closely surged through his veins. “You know what? Forget it. We'll spread the word that I'm just another rejected suitor
who was jerking your chain at the reception this afternoon and go back to plan A. Having met and talked to several of the club's members this afternoon, I'm guessing it probably won't work. But I'll give it my best shot. Because I sure as hell wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your tony friends.” He headed for the door but stopped with his hand on the knob to look back at her. “I realized you'd changed quite a bit since the good old days,” he said flatly, running his gaze over her expensive little outfit before meeting her startled gray-green eyes as she revolved in her seat to stare at him. “But, darlin', I never would have pegged you for a snob.”

And ripping open the door, he strode from the room, making a beeline for the front entrance.

 

“I'
M
NOT
A SNOB
,” V
ICTORIA
said to the empty room. Un-twisting from her awkward position watching Rocket's abrupt exit, she slowly settled back into her chair, then simply stared blankly at the bookcase behind the desk for a moment. She
wasn't,
dammit. He'd pointed out himself the other day that he wasn't country-club material. Besides, her comment had actually been a backhanded compliment, since the last thing she could envision John having the slightest interest in was trying to out-Jones the Joneses.